Chapter 1: An Unusual Day

  The glow of arcane energies danced across Dalia Sinclair's palms, a gentle shimmer of light that belied the raw power contained within. A single bead of sweat traced its way down her temple as she concentrated, urging the volatile magic to bend to her will. Twenty pairs of eyes bored into her back, their collective weight a tangible pressure between her shoulder blades.

  "Focus, Miss Sinclair," Professor Caldwell's voice sliced through the tense silence of the academy's practice hall. "Control is paramount. Precision is essential."

  Dalia gritted her teeth, pushing a wayward strand of unruly brown hair from her face with her shoulder. The sphere of magical energy hovering between her hands pulsed threateningly, its azure glow intensifying with each passing second. She could feel it slipping, like trying to hold water in cupped hands.

  "Steady now," she whispered to herself. "Just like Ezra taught you."

  The magical construct was supposed to be a simple exercise—form a perfect sphere, maintain it for one hundred heartbeats, then disperse it safely. The kind of basic control drill first-years mastered within weeks. Yet here she was, a third-year student at the prestigious Aeronautical War Academy, struggling with fundamentals while her classmates watched with expressions ranging from pity to poorly concealed amusement.

  Dalia inhaled deeply, trying to center herself. The magical sphere responded, stabilizing momentarily, its chaotic energy settling into smooth, concentric layers of light. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  "There we go," she murmured. "That's it."

  Then she felt it—a discordant ripple within the magical construct, a tiny imperfection that threatened to unravel everything. Panic flared in her chest. She tried to compensate, pouring more power into the sphere to stabilize it.

  It was the wrong move.

  The sphere pulsed violently, expanding to twice its intended size in an instant. Gasps erupted from her classmates. Professor Caldwell stepped forward, alarm evident in his usually impassive face.

  "Miss Sinclair, disperse it now!"

  But it was too late. The magical construct shuddered, its surface rippling like water disturbed by a thrown stone. Dalia frantically tried to contain it, her fingers splayed wide as she attempted to channel the excess energy safely away.

  The sphere imploded with a sound like shattering glass, then exploded outward in a blinding flash of azure light. The shockwave knocked Dalia backward, sending her sprawling onto the polished floor of the practice hall. Books flew from shelves, practice dummies toppled, and several students were forced to conjure hasty shields to protect themselves from the magical backlash.

  As the chaos subsided, Dalia pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking spots from her vision. The practice hall was in disarray—scrolls and tomes scattered across the floor, the air thick with magical residue that made it shimmer like a heat haze. And standing at the center of it all was Professor Caldwell, his robes singed and his expression thunderous.

  "Well," Dalia quipped, forcing a crooked smile that didn't reach her eyes, "at least I dispersed it, right?"

  Her attempt at humor fell flat in the stony silence. Professor Caldwell's nostrils flared as he drew himself up to his full, imposing height.

  "Miss Sinclair," he intoned, each syllable sharp as a blade, "this is precisely the kind of reckless behavior that makes your instructors question your place at this academy."

  The words stung more than Dalia cared to admit. She rose to her feet, brushing dust from her uniform with affected nonchalance. "It was just a small miscalculation," she said, striving to keep her voice steady. "I almost had it."

  "Almost," Professor Caldwell repeated, the word dripping with disdain, "is the difference between a controlled landing and a flaming wreck when you're three thousand feet in the air, Miss Sinclair."

  Titters of laughter rippled through the assembled students. Dalia's cheeks burned, but she maintained her posture, shoulders back, chin lifted in defiance.

  From the back of the room, a smooth, cultured voice drawled, "Perhaps she'd be better suited to the kitchens than the cockpit, Professor."

  The comment came from Elias Blackwood, son of some high-ranking admiral and leader of what Dalia had privately dubbed the "aristocratic airheads"—wealthy students whose families had deep ties to some of the more questionable merchant coalitions. Rumors hinted at connections to the very pirate factions the academy trained them to combat, though nothing had ever been proven.

  "That's quite enough, Mr. Blackwood," Professor Caldwell said, though Dalia couldn't help but notice how much milder his rebuke was compared to the one she'd received. "Miss Sinclair, clean up this mess. The rest of you are dismissed."

  As the other students filed out, many casting amused glances her way, Dalia felt a familiar knot of frustration tighten in her chest. She knelt, gathering scattered papers with perhaps more force than necessary, acutely aware of Elias Blackwood lingering by the door with his coterie of sycophants.

  "Don't mind him," came a soft voice beside her. Dalia looked up to find Lyra Chen, one of the few classmates who had never treated her with contempt, kneeling to help.

  "I don't," Dalia lied, shoving a leather-bound tome back onto its shelf. "They're not worth the energy."

  Lyra's skeptical expression made it clear she wasn't convinced. "You know," she said carefully, "it's not that you lack power. You have more raw magical potential than half the class combined. It's just—"

  "Control," Dalia finished for her, sighing heavily. "I know. Everyone keeps telling me that, as if I'm not trying."

  "Maybe you're trying too hard," Lyra suggested, rising to her feet with an armful of scrolls. "You push when you should pull, force when you should flow."

  Dalia snorted, though there was no real malice in it. "Now you sound like Ezra."

  "Your mentor is a wise man," Lyra replied with a small smile. "You'd do well to listen to him more."

  With Lyra's help, the practice hall was restored to order in short order. As they finished, Dalia noticed dark clouds gathering outside the tall windows, unusual for what had started as a clear autumn day.

  "Strange weather," she remarked, frowning at the rapidly darkening sky.

  Lyra followed her gaze, her brow furrowing. "Indeed. It came on rather suddenly."

  A hollow boom of thunder rolled across the academy grounds, so powerful it made the windowpanes rattle in their frames. Several students who had lingered in the corridor outside glanced nervously at the windows.

  "Just a storm," Dalia said, more to herself than to Lyra. Yet something about it felt... wrong. The clouds were moving too fast, swirling in patterns that seemed almost deliberate. And there was a peculiar quality to the light filtering through them—a sickly, greenish cast that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

  Another thunderclap, louder than the first, and this time accompanied by a flash of lightning that illuminated the practice hall in stark, momentary clarity. In that frozen instant, Dalia could have sworn she saw the silhouette of something massive moving within the clouds—something that had no business being in the sky.

  "Dalia?" Lyra's voice seemed distant, muffled. "Are you all right? You look pale."

  Blinking, Dalia tore her gaze from the window. "I'm fine," she said automatically. "Just tired, I suppose."

  But as they left the practice hall together, she couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that had settled over her like a shroud. Something was coming. Something dangerous.

  Or perhaps, she thought wryly, it was just another manifestation of her overactive imagination—the same one that had gotten her into trouble more times than she could count.

  The Academy's dining hall buzzed with the excited chatter of hundreds of students, their voices forming a chaotic symphony of youthful exuberance. Massive chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, their magical flames casting a warm, golden glow over long wooden tables polished to a mirror shine by generations of elbow grease.

  Dalia sat alone at the end of one such table, poking listlessly at a bowl of stew. The morning's disaster in the practice hall had apparently traveled through the academy's gossip channels at record speed. Wherever she went, whispers and stifled laughter followed like persistent shadows.

  "Is this seat taken?" a cheerful voice asked, jolting her from her thoughts.

  Looking up, Dalia found herself face to face with Theo Holloway, a second-year student with an infectious grin and a reputation for circumventing rules with creative interpretations. They'd spoken a few times during cross-year training exercises, and she'd found his irreverent humor a welcome reprieve from the academy's stifling formality.

  "All yours," she replied, gesturing to the empty bench across from her.

  Theo dropped onto the seat with the loose-limbed grace of someone perpetually at ease in their own skin. "So," he said, loading his plate with roasted potatoes, "I heard you redecorated the practice hall this morning. Bold choice. The 'magical explosion' aesthetic is underrated, if you ask me."

  Despite herself, Dalia snorted. "It wasn't that bad."

  "Not according to Elias Blackwood," Theo said, adopting a comically pompous expression. "'It was absolute chaos, darling. Total destruction. I feared for my life.'" His impression of Elias's affected accent was spot-on, and Dalia couldn't suppress a giggle.

  "He would say that," she muttered, her mood lightening slightly. "I think he's still sore about that time I outflew him in the summer trials."

  Theo grinned around a mouthful of potato. "Oh, definitely. His ego might never recover." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Besides, I've seen worse accidents. Last term, Markus Venn tried to amplify a simple light spell and ended up setting Professor Harlow's eyebrows on fire."

  Dalia winced sympathetically. "How long was he in detention?"

  "Three weeks of cleaning the astronomy tower. By hand. No magic allowed."

  "Ouch."

  Theo shrugged. "Could've been worse. Harlow's quite fond of those eyebrows."

  Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden commotion at the far end of the dining hall. A group of students had crowded around one of the tall windows, pointing and exclaiming. Curious, Dalia and Theo abandoned their meals and moved to investigate.

  Pushing through the gathered onlookers, Dalia felt her breath catch in her throat. The storm had intensified dramatically, the sky now an apocalyptic canvas of writhing black clouds. Lightning forked across the darkness in jagged, fractal patterns, but instead of the usual white-blue, these bolts shone with an eerie, violet-tinged light.

  "That's not natural," Theo murmured beside her, his usual joviality replaced by genuine concern.

  Dalia's response died on her lips as a massive bolt of the strange lightning struck the academy's central tower with a deafening crack. The entire building shuddered. Plates and goblets danced across tables. Several students screamed.

  Then the magical lights illuminating the dining hall flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness save for the violet glow of the unnatural storm outside.

  Panic rippled through the crowd. Someone knocked into Dalia from behind, nearly sending her sprawling. She caught herself on the window ledge, her fingers gripping the cold stone as chaos erupted around her.

  "Everyone remain calm!" The commanding voice of Headmistress Varrine cut through the cacophony like a knife. A sphere of pure white light bloomed above her outstretched hand, illuminating her severe features and the circle of senior staff gathered around her. "This is merely a temporary disruption to our warding systems. Return to your seats immediately."

  The students hesitated, exchanging nervous glances in the ghostly light. Another lightning strike hit somewhere close by, the thunder arriving almost simultaneously with the flash. The windows rattled ominously in their frames.

  "I said, return to your seats!" Headmistress Varrine's voice had taken on a steely edge that brooked no argument.

  Reluctantly, the crowd began to disperse. Dalia made to follow, but something held her in place. She turned back to the window, drawn by an inexplicable compulsion.

  There, in the midst of the churning clouds, a darker shape moved with purpose—the silhouette she thought she'd glimpsed earlier. This time, there was no mistaking it. The outline of an airship, larger than any she'd ever seen, its hull bristling with what could only be weapon emplacements.

  "Do you see that?" she whispered, grabbing Theo's arm before he could move away.

  He squinted, following her gaze. "See what? The storm?"

  "No, in the clouds. That shape." She pointed, but even as she did, the silhouette melted back into the roiling darkness, leaving her questioning whether it had been there at all.

  Theo looked at her with concern. "I don't see anything, Dalia. Just the storm."

  She shook her head, frustrated. "It was there. I swear it was."

  His expression softened with sympathy. "It's been a rough day. The storm's playing tricks on all of us."

  Reluctantly, Dalia allowed herself to be steered back to their table, though she couldn't shake the certainty of what she'd witnessed. She'd seen enough airship schematics in her tactical classes to recognize one, even obscured by storm clouds.

  But why would an airship be hovering directly above the academy? And why was no one raising the alarm?

  The remainder of the meal passed in tense silence, periodically broken by the crash of thunder and nervous murmurs from the student body. The teaching staff maintained a tight formation at the head table, their expressions grim as they conferred in hushed tones.

  When the bell finally rang to signal the end of the dining period, Dalia lingered, watching as Headmistress Varrine drew several senior professors into what appeared to be an urgent discussion.

  "Dalia?" Theo called from the doorway. "Are you coming? Combat Theory starts in five minutes."

  "You go ahead," she replied, her eyes still fixed on the staff table. "I'll catch up."

  As soon as Theo departed, Dalia moved closer to the head table, pretending to search for something in her bag while straining to catch fragments of the professors' conversation.

  "—unprecedented magical signature—"

  "—security protocols should be—"

  "—prepare the senior students for—"

  A sudden hand on her shoulder made her jump. Turning, she found herself face to face with Master Ezra Maddock, her mentor and the academy's resident expert on airship mechanics and magical propulsion.

  "Eavesdropping, Miss Sinclair?" Ezra's voice was stern, but the twinkle in his eye betrayed his amusement. He was a tall man with a shock of white hair and a beard that seemed perpetually singed at the edges from his frequent tinkering with volatile magical components.

  "Just tying my shoe, actually," Dalia replied with practiced innocence.

  "Ah, yes. Those notorious shoes that require one's ear to be pressed against a table to fasten properly." Ezra raised a bushy eyebrow. "Walk with me."

  It wasn't a request. Dalia slung her bag over her shoulder and fell into step beside him as he strode from the dining hall. The corridors were largely empty now, most students having hurried to their afternoon classes.

  "I heard about your... demonstration this morning," Ezra said after they had walked in silence for several moments.

  Dalia winced. "It wasn't as bad as people are making it out to be."

  "No?"

  "No," she insisted. "The sphere just got a little... enthusiastic."

  Ezra stopped walking and turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious. "Dalia, this isn't a joke. Your impulsivity is becoming dangerous."

  The shift in his tone caught her off guard. Ezra rarely chided her so directly. "I wasn't being impulsive," she protested. "I was trying to stabilize the construct."

  "By pouring more raw power into an already unstable magical formation?" He shook his head, disappointment evident in his weathered features. "That's like trying to put out a fire by throwing oil on it."

  Dalia felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. When he put it that way, it did sound foolish. "I panicked," she admitted in a small voice.

  Ezra's expression softened. "I know. And that's precisely the problem. In the air, panic costs lives. A moment's impulsive decision can send an entire airship and its crew plummeting to their deaths."

  They resumed walking, their path taking them through the academy's western wing, where tall windows offered a panoramic view of the storm-wracked sky. The unnatural lightning continued to flash, though the thunder had grown more distant.

  "Something's wrong with that storm," Dalia murmured, almost to herself.

  Ezra followed her gaze, his brow furrowing. "You've noticed, then."

  "It's magical in origin, isn't it?"

  He nodded slowly. "Indeed. Though not any type of weather magic we've documented before."

  "I saw something in the clouds," Dalia said, the words tumbling out before she could reconsider. "An airship. A big one."

  Ezra halted mid-step, his hand shooting out to grip her arm with surprising strength. "When?"

  Taken aback by his intensity, Dalia stammered, "J-just now, in the dining hall. And before that, from the practice hall. I thought I was imagining things at first, but I'm sure of it now."

  Ezra's expression grew grave, the lines on his face deepening. "Tell no one else about this, Dalia. Do you understand? No one."

  "But if there's a threat—"

  "The staff is aware of the situation," he cut her off, his voice dropping to a whisper though they were alone in the corridor. "Creating panic will only make things worse."

  Dalia stared at him, realization dawning. "So there is something out there."

  Ezra's silence was answer enough. After a moment, he released her arm and straightened his robes. "You should get to class, Miss Sinclair. And remember what I said about controlling your impulses. In times of crisis, discipline may be all that stands between survival and disaster."

  With that cryptic warning, he turned and strode away, leaving Dalia alone in the corridor with her racing thoughts and the persistent, nagging sensation that something momentous and terrible was unfolding above their heads.

  Combat Theory dragged interminably, Professor Marlow's monotonous voice droning on about tactical formations while Dalia's mind wandered repeatedly to the mysterious airship and Ezra's uncharacteristic alarm. She sketched absently in the margins of her notebook, rough outlines of the silhouette she'd glimpsed, trying to identify its class and origin from memory.

  It had been too large for a standard merchant vessel, and the protrusions along its hull suggested heavy armaments. Military, perhaps? But the academy maintained good relations with the kingdom's fleet. There would be no reason for them to approach clandestinely, shrouded by an unnatural storm.

  Which left only one likely explanation: pirates.

  Dalia's pencil stilled on the page. Pirate airships were typically cobbled-together affairs—repurposed merchant vessels or stolen military craft. They relied on speed and surprise, not overwhelming firepower. Whatever she had seen was something else entirely—larger, more cohesive in design, more threatening.

  "Miss Sinclair!"

  Dalia's head snapped up to find Professor Marlow glaring at her from the front of the classroom, his bushy mustache quivering with indignation.

  "Since you're clearly so engrossed in your note-taking," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "perhaps you'd care to enlighten the class about the tactical advantages of the Harrowind Maneuver?"

  Dalia's mind raced. The Harrowind Maneuver... something about using air currents and altitude to gain an advantage. Details eluded her.

  "It... leverages vertical positioning to, um, outmaneuver slower vessels?" she ventured, knowing even as the words left her mouth that they were woefully inadequate.

  Professor Marlow's disappointed sigh was theatrical in its execution. "A kindergartner could have provided more insight, Miss Sinclair. The Harrowind Maneuver, as Mr. Blackwood correctly explained while you were daydreaming, involves a coordinated series of altitude shifts between multiple allied airships to confuse enemy targeting systems and create overlapping fields of fire."

  Elias Blackwood, seated two rows ahead, turned to offer her a smug smile. Dalia resisted the urge to make a rude gesture in response.

  "Perhaps you should consider whether your evident lack of concentration is indicative of your suitability for this profession," Professor Marlow continued, twisting the knife. "Not everyone is cut out for aerial warfare, after all."

  The comment stung more than Dalia would ever admit aloud. Being an airship captain had been her dream since childhood, watching the majestic vessels soar above her family's modest estate. She'd fought tooth and nail for her place at the academy, enduring the skepticism of admissions officers who questioned whether a young woman from a minor noble house had the fortitude for such a demanding career.

  "I understand the maneuver perfectly well, Professor," she replied, unable to keep a hint of defiance from her voice. "I simply expressed it poorly."

  Professor Marlow's eyes narrowed at her tone. "See me after class, Miss Sinclair. We'll discuss your expression skills in detail."

  Wonderful. Another lecture on her inadequacies to cap off an already disastrous day.

  As Marlow resumed his monotonous lecture, Dalia became aware of a persistent tapping sound. At first, she thought it was rain against the classroom windows, but the rhythm was too regular, too deliberate.

  Looking around, she noticed other students had begun to hear it too, heads turning in confusion. The tapping grew louder, more insistent, until it became impossible to ignore.

  Professor Marlow broke off mid-sentence, his irritation palpable. "What in the world is that racket?"

  The answer came in the form of a small, metallic object that clinked into the room through the partially open transom window above the door. It rolled across the floor, coming to rest in the center of the classroom—a polished sphere no larger than an apple, covered in intricate runic engravings that pulsed with an ominous red light.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Dalia recognized it instantly from her studies: a Void Sphere, a dangerous magical device used to temporarily nullify all arcane energies within its radius of effect.

  "Everyone out!" she shouted, leaping to her feet. "That's a—"

  The sphere detonated with a muffled thump and a burst of crimson light. A wave of tangible emptiness swept through the room, leaving a hollow sensation in its wake like the pressure drop before a thunderstorm. Dalia tried to summon a protective shield instinctively, but the magic slipped from her grasp like water through a sieve.

  Students cried out in panic and confusion as their own magical abilities fizzled and died. Professor Marlow, his face ashen, stumbled backward against his desk.

  "Remain calm!" he commanded, though his voice wavered. "This is simply a—"

  The classroom door burst open with a splintering crack. Three figures stormed in, their faces concealed behind featureless metal masks, their bodies clad in dark leather armor accented with blood-red trim. Each carried a crossbow-like weapon that hummed with mechanical energy—automatic bolt-throwers, illegal in seven kingdoms and the preferred armament of sky pirates.

  "Nobody move!" the lead intruder barked, his voice distorted by his mask. "Hands where we can see them!"

  Terror froze Dalia in place, her mind racing. Pirates. In the academy. How had they gotten past the wards? The guards?

  The storm, she realized with sudden clarity. The magical interference from the unnatural tempest must have weakened the academy's defenses enough for them to infiltrate.

  Professor Marlow stepped forward, drawing himself up to his full height. "What is the meaning of this outrage? This is a royal academy! You can't possibly—"

  The lead pirate fired without hesitation. A bolt embedded itself in Marlow's shoulder with a sickening thud, sending him crashing back against the chalkboard. Students screamed. Someone near the back of the room fainted.

  "Next one goes through his eye," the pirate announced coldly. "Anyone else feel like being a hero?"

  Silence fell over the classroom, broken only by Professor Marlow's pained groans as he clutched his wounded shoulder.

  Dalia's fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails digging half-moons into her palms. Powerless. They were all powerless without their magic, exactly as the pirates had planned. A perfect ambush.

  The lead pirate gestured to his companions. "Secure them. Anyone resists, shoot them in the leg. We need most of them alive, but not necessarily intact."

  As the other two pirates moved to bind the students' hands with rough rope, Dalia's mind raced. There had to be a way out, some angle she hadn't considered yet.

  The Void Sphere's effects would be temporary—five minutes, perhaps ten at most. If she could stall long enough...

  "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. "What do you want with a bunch of students?"

  The lead pirate turned toward her, the blank metal mask revealing nothing of the face behind it. For a long, unsettling moment, he simply stared.

  "Spirited," he finally said, and though she couldn't see his expression, Dalia could hear the smirk in his voice. "You must be Sinclair."

  A chill ran down her spine. He knew her name. Why would he know her name?

  "Captain's going to be pleased," the pirate continued, stepping closer. "He has plans for you, girl. Special plans."

  Dalia's blood turned to ice in her veins. Captain? What captain? And what possible interest could a pirate leader have in her specifically?

  Before she could form a response, a distant explosion rocked the building, powerful enough to send dust sifting from the ceiling. The lead pirate cocked his head, as if listening to something only he could hear.

  "Change of plans," he announced abruptly. "We're taking this one now. The rest can wait."

  He lunged forward with unexpected speed, grabbing Dalia's arm in a bruising grip. She reacted instinctively, driving her knee upward with all the force she could muster.

  The pirate doubled over with a strangled curse, his grip loosening just enough for Dalia to wrench herself free. She bolted for the door, shoving past one of his stunned companions.

  "Stop her!" the lead pirate wheezed, still hunched over in pain.

  Dalia burst into the corridor, heart pounding in her ears. The hallway stretched before her, eerily empty. Where was everyone? Had the entire academy been infiltrated?

  Another explosion, closer this time, sent tremors through the floor beneath her feet. Smoke billowed from a stairwell to her right, acrid and thick. Through a nearby window, she caught glimpses of figures moving across the academy grounds—more pirates, dozens of them, engaged in running battles with academy staff.

  The storm still raged overhead, but now she could clearly see what it had concealed: a massive airship hovering above the central quad, its hull dark and predatory against the turbulent sky. Smaller vessels surrounded it like pilot fish circling a shark.

  Dalia ran, her mind focused on a single goal: reaching Ezra. He would know what to do, how to fight back. The mechanics workshop was in the east wing, just past the library.

  Behind her, she heard shouts and the heavy thud of pursuing footsteps. The pirates were giving chase. She pushed herself harder, legs burning as she sprinted down corridors and vaulted over debris from damaged walls.

  A bolt whistled past her ear, so close she felt its passage disturb her hair. It embedded itself in the wall ahead with a solid chunk. Dalia changed direction abruptly, ducking into a side passage that would take her on a more circuitous route to the workshop.

  The Void Sphere's effects had to be wearing off by now. She reached for her magic, feeling the familiar warmth returning, though still weaker than normal. Not enough for any complex spellwork, but perhaps...

  Rounding a corner, she found herself face to face with another pirate, this one in the process of binding a terrified first-year student. The pirate looked up, surprise evident even behind his mask.

  Dalia didn't hesitate. She thrust out her hand, channeling what little magic had returned into the simplest spell she knew—a basic force push, the first thing taught to new students. Under normal circumstances, it would do little more than shove an opponent back a step or two.

  But Dalia had never been one for holding back. She poured everything she had into the spell, raw and unrefined.

  The blast caught the pirate square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him into the stone wall with bone-crushing force. He slumped to the floor, unmoving.

  The first-year student gaped at her, wide-eyed. "H-how did you do that? My magic still isn't working!"

  "Run," Dalia told them, not taking the time to explain that her oversized magical reservoir had likely helped her recover faster. "Get somewhere safe and hide."

  The student needed no further encouragement, bolting down the corridor and out of sight.

  Dalia continued her frantic journey toward the workshop, the sounds of battle growing louder with each passing moment. Twice more she encountered pirates, and twice more she was forced to fight—once with magic, once with a decorative sword hastily yanked from a wall display. Her technique was far from perfect, but desperation lent her strength and speed.

  Finally, breathless and battered, she reached the workshop's heavy double doors. They stood ajar, acrid smoke seeping out from within. Dalia's heart clenched with sudden dread.

  "Ezra?" she called, pushing the door wider. "Master Ezra, are you here?"

  The workshop was in ruins. Workbenches overturned, tools scattered across the floor, the complex apparatus of half-finished airship components smashed beyond recognition. Several small fires smoldered among the debris, filling the air with the choking smell of burning oil and molten metal.

  "Ezra!" Dalia called again, more desperately this time.

  A weak cough answered her from behind a toppled storage cabinet. Dalia scrambled over the wreckage, her hands and knees collecting cuts and bruises that she barely registered.

  Ezra lay partially concealed beneath the cabinet, blood matting his white hair and beard. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and a dark stain spread across the front of his robes.

  "No," Dalia whispered, dropping to her knees beside him. "No, no, no."

  Ezra's eyes fluttered open, cloudy with pain but still alert. "Dalia," he wheezed. "You shouldn't be here. They're looking for you."

  "Who? Why?" She helped him into a sitting position, propping his back against the wall. "What do they want with me?"

  Ezra coughed, a wet, rattling sound that sent a spasm of pain across his features. "Not just you. All of you. The students. Captain Blacklock... he's taking... hostages."

  "Blacklock?" The name sparked a vague recognition. "The pirate captain?"

  Ezra nodded weakly. "More than that. He was... one of us, once. An academy master. Before he... turned."

  Dalia's mind reeled with the implications. A former academy master, now leading a pirate fleet? What could drive someone to such a betrayal?

  "We need to get you to a healer," she said, pushing her questions aside. "Can you stand?"

  Ezra grasped her wrist with surprising strength. "Listen to me, Dalia. This is important." His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. "The Crimson Gull. Deck seven, berth thirty-nine. The manifest says... scrapped materials. But it's not. It's—"

  A crash from the workshop entrance cut him off. Dalia whirled to see three pirates advancing through the smoke, weapons trained on them.

  "Found her," one of them called into a communication device strapped to his wrist. "And the old man too. Still alive, surprisingly."

  "Step away from him," another ordered Dalia, gesturing with his bolt-thrower.

  Ezra's grip on her wrist tightened painfully. "Remember," he hissed. "The Gull. And Dalia... your impulsivity. It can destroy... or it can save. Learn the difference."

  The pirates were almost upon them now. Dalia looked frantically around for a weapon, a tool, anything she could use to defend them.

  "Last warning," the lead pirate growled. "Step away now, or we drop you both."

  Time seemed to slow. Dalia felt something shift inside her—a clarity of purpose, a crystallization of fear and anger and determination into something harder, sharper.

  Her magic surged in response, no longer the volatile, unpredictable force she had struggled with that morning, but a focused weapon, then everything went black.

  Chapter 2: Shame

  The academy infirmary smelled of antiseptic herbs and the metallic tang of blood. Moonlight filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows across the rows of empty beds. All except one.

  Dalia sat motionless beside Ezra's cot, her fingers curled around his weathered hand. The healing mages had done what they could, closing his wounds and stabilizing his condition, but the elderly mechanic remained unconscious, his breathing shallow and labored. Occasionally, his eyelids would flutter, and Dalia would lean forward, hope swelling in her chest, only to have it deflate when he remained stubbornly trapped in whatever dark dreamscape held him captive.

  The pirate attack had ended as abruptly as it began. Captain Blacklock's forces had withdrawn after seizing a dozen students—all from prominent families, Dalia had later discovered—and inflicting enough damage to leave the academy reeling. The magical storm had dissipated with their departure, leaving behind a sky of innocent stars that seemed to mock the chaos they had witnessed.

  "You should rest," a gentle voice advised from behind her.

  Dalia didn't turn, recognizing the soft cadence of Healer Moira, a middle-aged woman whose kind eyes belied the steel in her spine. "I'm fine," she replied automatically.

  "You haven't slept in two days," Moira countered, moving to stand opposite her across Ezra's bed. "Exhaustion helps no one, least of all him."

  Dalia remained silent, her thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of Ezra's hand. How could she explain that sleep meant reliving those terrible moments in the workshop? The pirates advancing through smoke and flame. Ezra's blood staining her trembling hands. The desperate, reckless surge of magic that had erupted from her like a volcanic cataclysm, tearing through the workshop walls and burying two of the attackers beneath a cascade of stone and timber.

  The third had escaped, but not before shooting Ezra again in his hasty retreat.

  "I can't leave him," she finally said, her voice barely audible.

  Moira sighed, her expression softening with understanding. "He would not want you to neglect yourself on his account." She reached across the bed, gently touching Dalia's shoulder. "One hour. Just close your eyes for one hour. I'll wake you if there's any change."

  Before Dalia could formulate another protest, the infirmary door swung open with a decisive thud. Headmistress Varrine strode in, her imperious features set in a mask of grim determination. Following close behind were Professor Caldwell and a thin, reedy man Dalia recognized as Master Phineas, head of the Academy's disciplinary committee.

  Something cold and leaden settled in the pit of Dalia's stomach. She straightened in her chair, squaring her shoulders for whatever storm approached.

  "Miss Sinclair," Headmistress Varrine began without preamble, "you will accompany us to my office immediately."

  Dalia glanced at Ezra's still form, reluctant to leave. "Can't this wait? I'd rather stay until he—"

  "It cannot wait," Varrine interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. "Master Ezra's condition is stable, and we have matters of grave importance to discuss."

  The walk through the academy's corridors felt interminable. Dalia was acutely aware of the sidelong glances from students they passed, the whispered conversations that died abruptly at her approach. News traveled fast within these walls, and it seemed everyone had heard some version of what had transpired in the mechanics workshop.

  Headmistress Varrine's office occupied the highest level of the academy's central tower, a circular chamber dominated by a massive desk of polished ironwood. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the academy grounds, where repair crews were still clearing debris from the attack. The walls were lined with portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses, their stern gazes seeming to follow Dalia as she took the lone chair placed strategically in front of the desk.

  Varrine settled into her high-backed chair, while Caldwell and Phineas flanked her like sentinels. No one spoke for several uncomfortable moments.

  "Do you understand why you're here, Miss Sinclair?" Varrine finally asked, her fingers steepled beneath her chin.

  Dalia swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "I assume it's about what happened during the attack."

  "Partially," Varrine acknowledged with a slight nod. "Though recent events have merely brought to light concerns that have existed for some time."

  Professor Caldwell stepped forward, a scroll unfurled in his hands. "Let us review the facts," he said, his voice clinical and detached. "During your time at this academy, you have accumulated seventeen formal warnings for improper use of magic, three citations for reckless endangerment during flight exercises, and numerous instances of insubordination."

  "Most of those were minor incidents," Dalia protested, heat rising to her cheeks.

  "Minor?" Caldwell's eyebrow arched incredulously. "You crashed an experimental glider into the observatory dome. You created a magical feedback loop that shattered every window in the eastern dormitory. You—"

  "That's enough, Professor," Varrine interjected, raising a hand. "I believe Miss Sinclair takes your point."

  Dalia bit her tongue, restraining the defensive arguments that crowded her mind. She'd passed all her exams. She'd excelled in tactical simulations. She'd even won the summer flight trials, outmaneuvering students with far more experience. Surely that counted for something?

  "Now," Varrine continued, her piercing gaze fixed on Dalia, "let us discuss the events of two nights ago. During the pirate incursion, you engaged in prohibited combat with the intruders despite explicit instructions for all students to shelter in place."

  "They were attacking Ezra," Dalia countered, her hands clenching involuntarily. "What was I supposed to do, hide and let them kill him?"

  "Your intentions may have been noble," Master Phineas interjected, his reedy voice carrying a surprising authority, "but your actions were catastrophic. Your uncontrolled magical outburst collapsed an entire section of the workshop wing."

  "I saved Ezra's life," Dalia insisted, her voice rising despite her efforts to remain calm.

  "And nearly cost others theirs," Caldwell retorted sharply. "Three maintenance staff were trapped in the collapse. They survived only by the grace of the old gods and the quick thinking of Professor Littlebrook, who shielded them with a barrier spell."

  The revelation struck Dalia like a physical blow. She hadn't known. In the chaos that followed, with Ezra bleeding in her arms and academy guards swarming the area, she hadn't thought to ask about collateral damage. Shame burned through her, hot and suffocating.

  "I didn't... I didn't realize," she stammered, her earlier defiance crumbling.

  "No," Varrine said, her tone softening marginally, "you didn't. And therein lies the crux of our concern, Miss Sinclair. Your impulsivity, your inability to consider consequences before acting, represents a fundamental danger not only to yourself but to everyone around you."

  Master Phineas produced a sealed document from within his robes, placing it delicately on Varrine's desk. The Headmistress broke the wax seal with a practiced motion and scanned its contents briefly before addressing Dalia once more.

  "The disciplinary committee, after reviewing all evidence, has reached a decision." Her voice was measured, each word falling like a stone into still water. "You are to be expelled from the Aeronautical War Academy, effective immediately."

  The world seemed to tilt beneath Dalia. Expelled. The word echoed in her mind, incomprehensible at first, then devastating in its clarity. Her dream, her future, everything she had worked toward since childhood—gone in an instant.

  "You can't," she whispered, more plea than protest. "Please. I can do better. I can control it."

  "I'm afraid the decision is final," Varrine replied, though something like regret flickered briefly across her features. "Your personal effects will be packed and ready for collection by tomorrow morning. Arrangements will be made for your return home."

  Home. The word twisted like a knife in Dalia's gut. Her father's disappointment would be unbearable. The smug satisfaction of relatives who had predicted her failure from the start would be even worse. She'd be relegated to the margins of society, just another failed noble daughter to be married off to whatever middling lord would take her.

  "Isn't there... isn't there anything else?" Dalia asked, desperation bleeding into her voice. "Some alternative? Probation, perhaps, or—"

  She broke off as Varrine and Caldwell exchanged a significant look.

  "There is... one possibility," Varrine said slowly, as if weighing each word. "Though I'm not certain it would be any more palatable to you than expulsion."

  Hope flickered weakly in Dalia's chest. "What is it?"

  Professor Caldwell cleared his throat. "The academy has recently acquired an aging airship, the 'Crimson Gull.' It was intended for use as a training vessel, but assessment has revealed it to be too costly to refurbish. It needs to be delivered to the scrapyard at Northwind Point."

  The Crimson Gull. Ezra's words in the workshop echoed in Dalia's memory. Deck seven, berth thirty-nine. The manifest says... scrapped materials. But it's not.

  "You want me to pilot it there?" Dalia asked, confusion momentarily displacing her despair.

  "Not merely pilot," Varrine clarified. "You would be assuming full responsibility for the vessel and a minimal crew for the duration of the journey. It would be a one-way mission, after which you would make your own arrangements. The academy would not facilitate your return."

  Understanding dawned on Dalia with cold clarity. This wasn't an alternative to expulsion—it was exile disguised as a task. A convenient way to remove her from the academy while avoiding the scandal of outright dismissal.

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Then the original verdict stands," Phineas replied with a slight shrug. "You leave tomorrow with your reputation in tatters and your academic record permanently marked."

  Dalia stood abruptly, unable to remain seated under the weight of their judgment. She paced to the window, gazing out at the academy grounds bathed in twilight. Students traversed the paths between buildings, their lives continuing uninterrupted while hers lay in ruins around her.

  "Why the Gull specifically?" she asked, remembering Ezra's urgency. "Why not any other vessel?"

  "It's the only airship currently slated for decommissioning," Caldwell answered, though something in his tone suggested he wasn't being entirely forthright. "And given its condition, we deemed it... appropriate for the circumstances."

  Dalia turned back to face them, suspicion crystallizing into certainty. "This was Ezra's idea, wasn't it?"

  The momentary flicker in Varrine's expression confirmed her guess.

  "Master Ezra suggested it might be a suitable arrangement," the Headmistress acknowledged guardedly. "Though the decision ultimately rested with the committee."

  Of course. Ezra had known this was coming. He'd tried to warn her, to prepare her, even as he lay bleeding in her arms. The Crimson Gull wasn't just a convenient solution to her disciplinary problems—it was important somehow. Important enough for Ezra to mention it with what he likely thought were his dying breaths.

  "I'll do it," Dalia declared, the words escaping before she could fully consider their implications.

  Surprise registered briefly on Varrine's face. Perhaps she had expected more resistance, more negotiation. "You understand the terms? Once you leave, there's no returning to the academy."

  "I understand," Dalia replied, a strange calm settling over her. This wasn't the ending she had envisioned for her academic career, but perhaps it wasn't an ending at all. Perhaps it was something else entirely—a beginning disguised as a conclusion.

  "Very well," Varrine said, reaching for a quill. "You will report to the eastern hangar at dawn tomorrow. The ship's manifest and crew details will be provided to you then."

  As Dalia was dismissed from the office, her mind whirled with possibilities. What was so special about the Crimson Gull? What had Ezra been trying to tell her? And why did she have the unsettling feeling that she was being maneuvered like a playing piece on a board whose full dimensions she couldn't yet perceive?

  The corridor outside her dormitory room buzzed with hushed conversations that abruptly ceased as Dalia approached. A small crowd had gathered, eager for a glimpse of the academy's latest pariah. She kept her head high, her expression carefully neutral, though internally she cringed at their undisguised curiosity.

  "Is it true?" Lyra Chen emerged from the crowd, concern evident in her dark eyes. "Are they really expelling you?"

  Dalia hesitated, suddenly aware of the many ears straining to catch her response. "Not here," she murmured, unlocking her door and motioning Lyra inside.

  The room, which had been her home for three years, already felt alien. Someone—probably one of the academy's service staff—had begun the process of packing her belongings. Books had been removed from shelves, clothing folded and stacked in neat piles beside an open trunk.

  "So it is true," Lyra said softly, taking in the half-dismantled room. "Oh, Dalia, I'm so sorry."

  Dalia sank onto her bed, suddenly too exhausted to maintain her fa?ade of composure. "Not exactly," she admitted. "I've been... reassigned, I suppose you could say. I'm to deliver the Crimson Gull to Northwind Point."

  Lyra's brow furrowed. "The old Mark IV junker? That thing's barely airworthy. And Northwind is at least a fortnight's journey, even with favorable winds."

  "Twenty-three days, according to the charts," Dalia corrected, having mentally calculated the route during her walk from Varrine's office. "And yes, that 'barely airworthy junker' is apparently my ticket out of total disgrace."

  "It's still utterly unfair," Lyra insisted, sitting beside her. "The attack wasn't your fault. And Ezra might have died if you hadn't intervened."

  Dalia managed a wan smile, touched by her friend's loyalty. "The committee saw it differently. And truthfully, maybe they're right. I did bring down half the workshop wing."

  "To save a life," Lyra countered fiercely. "Anyone would have done the same."

  "But not everyone would have done it quite so... destructively." Dalia picked at a loose thread on her bedspread, unable to meet Lyra's supportive gaze. "You know how I am, Lyra. My magic has always been... problematic."

  "Powerful," Lyra corrected. "Not problematic. Just untamed. And that's hardly grounds for expulsion."

  "Apparently, it is when combined with a pattern of 'reckless behavior and insubordination,'" Dalia quoted Professor Caldwell's words with a grimace. "Anyway, it's done. By this time tomorrow, I'll be airborne and academy life will continue without me."

  Lyra was silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "There's something more to this, isn't there? It feels... strange. Rushed."

  Dalia hesitated. Could she trust Lyra with her suspicions? With Ezra's cryptic message? But what if she was wrong? What if she was merely grasping at mysteries where none existed, desperate to believe her expulsion served some greater purpose?

  "I don't know," she finally replied, deciding on a partial truth. "It's all happened so quickly, I've barely had time to process it."

  Before Lyra could press further, a sharp knock rattled the door. Without waiting for a response, Elias Blackwood sauntered in, his customary smirk firmly in place.

  "Well, well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe with affected casualness. "Bit of a mess you've made, haven't you, Sinclair?"

  Dalia tensed, in no mood for Blackwood's particular brand of aristocratic condescension. "What do you want, Elias?"

  "Just paying my respects before your... departure." His gaze swept dismissively over her half-packed belongings. "Though I must say, I'm surprised they're letting you fly anything after your little magical tantrum. Scraping you off a mountainside would be such a tedious administrative burden."

  "You know what would be truly tedious, Blackwood?" Dalia retorted, rising to her feet. "Having to explain to the academy board why the son of Admiral Blackwood was found dangling from the astronomy tower flagpole in his undergarments. Again."

  Elias's smile tightened, a flush of anger creeping up his neck at the reminder of a particularly humiliating prank from their first year. "Always the jester, even in disgrace. I admire your commitment to character, if nothing else."

  "If you've finished gloating, you can leave now," Lyra interjected coolly. "Some of us still have basic manners."

  "Oh, I'm not here to gloat," Elias replied, though his expression suggested otherwise. "I'm here to offer some friendly advice. The Crimson Gull is... temperamental. I'd check the fuel lines before departure if I were you. Terrible tragedy, the number of old ships that go down due to simple mechanical failures."

  His tone made it abundantly clear that this wasn't friendly advice at all, but a thinly veiled threat. Dalia studied him, a chill running down her spine despite her outward composure. Blackwood had always been antagonistic, but this felt different—darker, more deliberate.

  "I'll keep that in mind," she replied evenly. "Now, if you don't mind, I have packing to finish."

  Elias lingered a moment longer, his gaze calculating. "Safe travels, Sinclair," he finally said, a curious emphasis on the word 'safe' that made it sound like anything but a well-wish. "Do try not to destroy any more academy property on your way out."

  After he left, Lyra turned to Dalia with wide eyes. "Was he just...? Did he actually suggest sabotaging your ship?"

  "I don't know what that was," Dalia admitted, "but it certainly wasn't concern for my well-being." She rubbed her temples, a headache beginning to pulse behind her eyes. "Add it to the growing list of mysteries surrounding this whole situation."

  "You can't go alone," Lyra decided abruptly. "Not after that. I'm coming with you."

  Dalia shook her head firmly. "Absolutely not. I'm not dragging you into my mess, Lyra. You have a promising career ahead of you. Don't throw it away on some misguided act of friendship."

  "It's not misguided," Lyra protested. "It's—"

  "It's decided," Dalia interrupted gently but firmly. "Besides, the crew has already been assigned. I doubt Varrine would approve last-minute additions, especially ones with your academic standing."

  Lyra opened her mouth to argue further, then closed it with a resigned sigh. "Promise me you'll be careful, then. And not just with the ship. Something feels... off about all of this."

  "I promise," Dalia assured her, though privately she agreed with Lyra's assessment. There were too many unanswered questions, too many strange coincidences. Captain Blacklock's attack. Ezra's cryptic message. Elias Blackwood's veiled threats. The hastily arranged 'alternative' to her expulsion.

  It felt less like punishment and more like... what? A mission? A test? Or perhaps something more sinister—a convenient disposal of a problematic student?

  After Lyra left, promising to return before Dalia's departure the next morning, the room fell into a heavy silence. Dalia stood motionless, surrounded by the dismantled pieces of her former life. Three years of study, of dreams, of determination—all neatly sorted into piles for packing.

  Outside her window, the academy's warning horns sounded the approach of evening curfew. Students would be returning to their dormitories now, preparing for another day of classes and training that would continue without her.

  Impulsively, Dalia grabbed her academy jacket and slipped out of her room. There was one place she needed to visit before she left, one person she needed to see.

  The infirmary was quiet in the late evening hours, lit only by the soft glow of mage-lights that hovered near the ceiling like miniature moons. Dalia moved silently past the duty healer's desk, relying on three years' worth of after-hours excursions to avoid detection. She knew the night staff's routines, the creaky floorboard near the medicine cabinet, the exact angle at which to push the inner door to prevent its hinges from squealing.

  Ezra still lay motionless on his cot, his condition apparently unchanged. Dalia approached quietly, pulling a chair close to his bedside. For several minutes, she simply sat in silence, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

  "They're sending me away," she finally whispered, though she had no way of knowing if he could hear her. "The Crimson Gull, just like you said. What were you trying to tell me, Ezra? What's so important about that ship?"

  Ezra made no response, his weathered face serene in unconsciousness. Dalia sighed, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

  "I'm scared," she admitted, the words easier to say to someone who couldn't hear them. "Not of piloting the Gull or whatever dangers might be waiting out there. I'm scared of failing. Of proving everyone right about me." Her voice caught slightly. "Of disappointing you."

  She reached out, taking Ezra's hand in hers. It felt cool and dry, the skin paper-thin over prominent veins and knuckles gnarled from decades of mechanical work.

  "You've always believed in me, even when I didn't believe in myself. You saw something in me that others missed." Tears welled up, blurring her vision. "I don't know if I can do this without you."

  A gentle pressure against her fingers made Dalia freeze. Ezra's hand had tightened around hers, almost imperceptibly. She leaned closer, searching his face for any sign of consciousness.

  "Ezra? Can you hear me?"

  His eyelids fluttered but didn't open. His lips moved, forming words too soft to hear. Dalia bent down, her ear close to his mouth.

  "...trust them," Ezra whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "The crew... chosen carefully. Trust... their experiences. Learn from... your own."

  "The crew of the Gull?" Dalia asked urgently. "Who are they, Ezra? What am I supposed to be looking for?"

  But Ezra had slipped back into unconsciousness, his hand going limp in hers. Dalia sat back, frustration and concern warring within her. He was trying to tell her something important, something that might make sense of this entire confusing situation, but his condition prevented him from explaining clearly.

  She would have to figure it out herself. Whatever secrets the Crimson Gull held, whatever purpose Ezra had in directing her to it, she would uncover them.

  As Dalia slipped out of the infirmary, her earlier shame and self-pity had hardened into something more useful—determination. She might be leaving the academy in disgrace, but she was not defeated. Not yet.